Conditions Of This Agreement
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sherlock is tetchy and lays out some rules for John.  Set after "Delineation of Personal Boundaries".  John/Sherlock established relationship.


John was accosted by Sherlock as soon as he walked through the door.

This was normal nowadays – it had always been more or less normal, although the manner in which he was accosted had changed drastically after they'd become partners. He would admit to himself that he did much prefer the way Sherlock did so now.

At least, the way he usually did so now.

John was more than used to having his personal space invaded, and he was used to Sherlock wanting attention of some kind – about a case, about one of his incomprehensible experiments, about sex.

Sometimes, he combined all of these three topics at once, which always resulted in confusion for John but which never seemed to deter Sherlock in the slightest.

He was not used to Sherlock thrusting a sheet of paper at him, grey eyes blazing, jaw set, expression incensed. It was always startling to see Sherlock really angry, to see that pale skin redden somewhat, to see his eyes narrow in that way that told John he wasn't annoyed at an interruption to his thought process, but genuinely and seriously displeased.

John tried to take a step back before remembering there was a door behind him.

"What?" he asked.

"This is for you," Sherlock said coolly, shoving the sheet of paper into his hands. Then he turned abruptly, dropping himself into his chair, tucking his legs up and slouching down with arms crossed over his chest, in his classic Sherlock sulk position.

John stared at him a moment, wondering what he'd done that warranted this kind of reaction, then looked down at the paper.

It was a list.

It read:

Mrs. Hudson's

Any of Mycroft's flats

Mrs. Hudson's

The Buckinghamshire house

The Yard

Mrs. Hudson's

Your office

Lestrade's

Afghanistan

Mrs. Hudson's

Anywhere that isn't this flat

"What's this?" John asked, looking back up from the strange list, trying to figure it out. Places they couldn't shag? Well, obviously none of these – although maybe his office, if he could ever get Sherlock to actually go down to the surgery, but it would have to be after hours, because John was _not_ putting his personal life on display for his colleagues.

And obviously not Mycroft's. Or Lestrade's. Or the Yard. And he doubted that if they visited Sherlock's parents that Sherlock would actually refrain from wanting to shag there. Since he had initially embarked on a campaign to inaugurate every room in the flat, John suspected he'd pursue the same agenda at his parents' enormous house with the possible exception of his parents' rooms and maybe Mycroft's.

"Rules," Sherlock snapped in answer to his question, refusing to look at John.

"Rules?" John repeated.

"Yes, John, rules. I know your hearing is perfectly adequate."

"Rules for what?" John sighed.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes even more but slid them to John, holding the doctor's befuddled gaze for a moment. He unfolded his long body with surprising speed and ease and stalked away into the kitchen.

Confused, John made to follow but had only gone two steps – still wrapped in his winter jacket and the scarf Sherlock had bought him – when Sherlock strode back, stopping as soon as he'd cleared the archway from the kitchen. He held up the sugar tin in his right hand and gave John a look so pointed that it could have pierced skin.

John felt like he might have caught up a little bit. He gave Sherlock a cautious but questioning glance.

"Thought you might like the extra challenge," he said carefully.

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "What? Mrs. Hudson's, John! _Mrs. Hudson's_!"

"Um, yes," John said. He had asked her permission. She'd seemed delighted at the little game, and John knew she was pleased Sherlock had some hobby that didn't involve shooting the walls. He folded his arms loosely.

"How long did it take you?" he asked, a smile twitching on his lips.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment.

"That's irrelevant!" he snapped. "It was in Mrs. Hudson's, John! Not good! I had to go in there without her permission and retrieve it!"

"Uh huh," John said. "That was the point."

Sherlock's eyes widened, then narrowed again so fast John thought it must have hurt.

"No," he hissed. "It is _not_ the point. It was in Mrs. Hudson's. She wasn't _home_, John."

John gave Sherlock a puzzled look.

"And?" he asked. "She comes in here all of the time."

Sherlock stared a him a moment longer, then spun on his heel and stalked back into the kitchen, replacing the sugar with a clatter of the tin and a slam of the cupboard door.

"Unacceptable, John!" he snapped, coming back in. "_That_," he pointed to the list in John's hand, "is therefore a list of places in which you are _not_ allowed to hide the bloody sugar!"

John looked at it again.

"Afghanistan?" he asked, unable to completely suppress his smile. He knew he shouldn't, because Sherlock was well and properly angry with him, but the inclusion of a foreign country was a bit above and beyond.

"I clearly can't be too precise with you," Sherlock said coolly. "I thought it best to cover all of the possibilities that you're likely to think of."

"Yes, I see Mrs. Hudson's name is on here four times," John commented.

"So that you understand it unmistakably," Sherlock hissed, striding past him, flopping back into his chair and snagging the remote to turn on the telly. John opened his mouth to say something else, but Sherlock held up a hand, the expression on his face dark and warning.

John closed his mouth as the familiar intro music for one of Sherlock's Doctor Who discs began. He sighed, putting the list down so he could hang up his coat and scarf. Sherlock selected an episode, probably deliberately picking one that was particularly noisy, and turned up the volume.

John knew he'd lost, at least for the moment.

There was no interrupting Doctor Who. John had even seen Sherlock ignore calls from Lestrade if he were in the middle of an episode.

John folded the list and put it in his pocket, knowing Sherlock had noted him doing this even if his partner's eyes never left the television screen and he didn't so much as move. John sighed again to himself, pondering the unexpected madness that came with life with Sherlock Holmes.

He fixed himself some dinner, making enough for Sherlock for good measure, and went into the livingroom with both plates.

"Hungry?" he asked.

Sherlock responded only by turning up the volume on the telly.

John set the other plate next to Sherlock who did not even glance at it, and settled himself into his chair, watching the show vaguely while he ate. Sherlock stayed curled up and slouched, arms folded, expression cross.

When he finished eating, he took his own empty plate into the kitchen and rinsed it in the sink. He left Sherlock's food where it was, although he knew the detective wasn't about to eat it – doing so would constitute some sort of victory for John, and Sherlock was evidently in no mood to give any quarter whatsoever. But John wasn't about to give in that quickly, either, although he knew he'd cave eventually.

Sherlock was good at defeating him when it came to sheer stubbornness.

He couldn't quite repress a sigh when he opened the tea cupboard and saw an identical list to the one he had in his pocket taped to the inside of the door.

It was both surprising and maddening to learn where Sherlock drew the lines of his personal boundaries. Surprising because he actually had some, maddening because they made no sense whatsoever. Here was a man who, long before they'd ever been partners or had thought of becoming so, had required John to retrieve his phone from the pocket of a coat he was wearing at the time. A man who had routinely invaded John's personal space to get him to think or focus, who had gone into his bedroom without warning. Who had, in fact, decided just to sleep in John's bed their first night together, ostensibly because he couldn't fall asleep in his own.

And yet he baulked at going into Mrs. Hudson's when she wasn't at home to retrieve something of theirs John had stored down there.

Even though she came into their flat on a regular basis unannounced and yes, had nicked the skull again, he noted.

Mrs. Hudson have given them a key and John knew for a fact she had no problems with either of them being in her flat if need be.

But explaining that to Sherlock would fall on deaf ears – he could be remarkably selective about his logic when he chose to be, particularly when it involved something that he cared about. For a self-described sociopath, he had some very large mental blind spots that encompassed entire people, John and Mrs. Hudson being two of them.

John sat down again, watching Sherlock who steadfastly refused to return his gaze, even just a flicker, keeping his grey eyes trained on the telly screen.

"Sherlock–" John started.

"The Doctor is _talking_, John," Sherlock snapped without shifting his attention and John sighed quietly. He wondered about pointing out that he himself was also a doctor, but strongly suspected this would not get a favourable reaction.

So he settled in to wait, because he knew from experience that sometimes this was the best. John read, keeping an ear on the show, but Sherlock ran through three entire episodes, turning the volume up occasionally for the express purpose of irritating John. John focused as much as he could on his book, and got himself a beer at one point, taking Sherlock's now completely cold food away at the same time.

Finally, after three loud and boisterous episodes, he forcibly inserted himself back into the picture by shutting off the telly and unplugging it so that Sherlock's attempts to turn it back on with the remote were utterly thwarted.

Sherlock huffed at him, turning his grey-eyed glare on John. John set his beer aside and leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees.

"I'm sorry I put the sugar in Mrs. Hudson's," he said.

Sherlock shifted only slightly, but John saw that he was surprised by the direct apology. He sniffed, turning his eyes away again, continuing to sulk.

"I didn't know it would upset you," John continued and Sherlock slouched down further in a way that told John he was secretly pleased to be getting this admission but didn't want to show it. "I won't do it again."

Sherlock glowered, but there was a telltale crinkle around the corner of his eyes that John didn't miss.

"See that you don't," he replied coolly.

"I won't," John promise. "Nowhere that isn't in this flat, as you said."

Sherlock stayed silent a moment longer.

"Good," he grouched.

John rose, circling behind Sherlock's chair and placed a kiss on the top of his head. Sherlock didn't move, but didn't pull away, either.

"I am sorry," John said, pressing his cheek against Sherlock's curls, making sure not to smile as he said so, because Sherlock would feel it and take it as him not being contrite.

"You should be."

"I am."

Not as much as he was admitting to, because it was actually kind of funny to see Sherlock in such a snit about something so insignificant, but at least now he knew where some of Sherlock's boundaries were. That helped.

John plugged the telly back in and Sherlock resumed his Doctor Who marathon at a much more reasonable volume. John stayed away from his laptop deliberately – he didn't need Sherlock assuming he was going to blog about this, even though he just wanted to check his email – and picked up a book of crosswords, settling himself down to work through one of the harder ones.

Eventually, he got up, washed up and changed.

"I'm going to bed," he said, poking his head back into the living room.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, but there was less of a bite in his voice now. John repressed a roll of the eyes and turned in, falling asleep easily. At some point in the night, he felt Sherlock climb in beside him and wrapped himself sleepily around his partner, Sherlock returning the embrace.

When he awoke in the morning, Sherlock was watching him with those brilliant grey eyes, his expression mild, not even a hint of irritation in his features anymore.

"Good morning," he greeted John with a kiss. John returned it, feeling snug and warm under the duvet with his partner.

"Mm, good morning," John replied.

"Pancakes for breakfast?" Sherlock asked.

"Sounds perfect."

Sherlock kissed him again, lightly, and slid out of bed. John let out a happy sigh, relieved that Sherlock's ability to overreact about the smallest of things was matched only by his ability to get over these things with astonishing speed. John took it as a good sign that his partner had waited for him to wake up before getting up himself.

It made for a promising day, and John was very much looking forward to a relaxed, lazy, and comfortable Sunday with Sherlock.


End file.
